Tag Archives: football

I know what you’re thinking, but I can confirm that your fears are completely unfounded. I am not going to sign for Liverpool to replace Fernando Torres. Just putting that out there. I am writing this at the end of what the Sky Sports hype-sters call “DEADLINE DAY”, where English football clubs do the last of their mid-season transfer deals.

Irreplaceable? There's a 17 stone lump of skill that disagrees.

The thing that amuses me most about this most hyperbolic of sporting days is the reporting, as Sky Sports News shamelessly peddle tiny droplets of information like Justin Bieber naked pictures to a gaggle of tweenage dreamers. While this particular transfer window has been a reasonably exciting and active one, the real interest for me comes from the times when nothing is happening. Nothing at all. The genius behind these lulls in activity, sometimes days at a time over the month-long sales period, is how Sky Sports can quite literally make something out of nothing. There will actually be specifically-designated reporters stationed at locations all over the country whose job it is to reply “Nothing much happening here, back to you” every time the anchorperson tries to coax the slightest glimmer of interesting information from them.

Teh biebs <3<3<3

While previously football fans thirsty for knowledge of potential ins and outs at their club would have to wait until the morning newspapers were dispatched, but now the whole transfer process is fetish-ised. No longer a case of “he’s signed” or “he’s not signed”, now all new stages such as “in talks”, “interested” and “linked” are used to describe just what stage in the emotional tightrope walk of football negotiations we are at. And of course in this 3D, HD, LSD, VD era these psychological minutiae are afforded their own set of natty graphics.

Quieten down! Jason Puncheon has agreed a loan to Blackpool!

I am thinking of perhaps employing my own set of journalists to chart my journey to a socially-acceptable waistline with the barely-contained excitement of the SSN crew. “It has been confirmed by my sources that Joey did spend 13.8 seconds perusing the Kit Kat range at Tesco at around 10:00am but I’m pleased to say he steered well clear. However news is reaching us now that he might have been tempted by the Freddos being sold in the petrol station on the way home. We should have more on that in the next hour. Back to you”

If you have the same jogging route every day, you end up seeing the same collection of sights on a regular basis. Careless motorists, dog walkers, other joggers and of course farmers steering quad bikes with one hand while holding a double-barreled shotgun in the other. I sense your confusion, but to be honest that last sentence is probably the only part of this blog I haven’t embellished.

I seem to have befriended this farmer without ever really trying. Not in a “come round for a drink” way but more a “if I smile at you, will you spare my life?” fashion. Allow me to explain, for those who may not be from Britain. Over here farmers are kind of like drug dealers are in America. They are allowed to shoot anything that infringes on their turf, because it saves the police doing it. You see otherwise the police would have polyester-short wearing blobs of ne’er-do-well waddling through the village under the pretence of exercise to deal with every day. So farmers ride around on their quad bikes with guns, policing their turf and keeping us lard-fests in check. I think they milk animals and stuff as well, but that is just a rumour.

YOU JUST RAN INTO THE WRONG COUNTRY FIELD FAT BOY!

I see Tupac Sheepkur on his quad bike pretty much every day, flying down the road with more fingers on the trigger than on the steering wheel. He seems a friendly enough chap actually, like I say he always flashes me a smile and seems mildly amused by the persistence of my running efforts despite the deep shade of purple I have normally turned by the time I meet him. Very friendly actually, for a guy armed to the teeth. I wouldn’t date his daughter though, let’s put it that way. She might have fleas. Oh yeah, and the gun thing.

I was confronted with perhaps my greatest challenge to date yesterday: another jogger. As this athletic-looking middle-ager approached my creaking frame along the winding country road my mind raced with what to do. Are joggers like Eddie Stobart drivers, do we have a ritual? A hug? A fist bump? Maybe we just shout “JOGGERS ASSEMBLE!” at each other? I decided to keep it low key and give him a nod, a little show of solidarity that we together were active people improving ourselves. And he could not have looked more revolted. The look of pure disdain that wracked his face will live with me forever. Then I realised that jogging is an elite sport, and I’m not meant to be here. He was Ted Knight and I was Rodney Dangerfield, and this ladies and gentlemen was Caddyshack.

I have surmised from this that running is not for people who want to get in shape. According to my uppity friend, who turned his nose up so far he looked like Daniella Westbrook pre-op, running is not for the fat. Once we have eaten enough to leave Puppy Fat Station and arrive at Obeseville we are actually no longer allowed to exercise it seems. Think about it, when have you ever seen a jogger who looked like they needed to jog? Fat people don’t jog! They sit at home and get fatter while people who are already in shape make themselves more magnificent on their daily run.

A picture says a thousand words. In this case, "eeeeeeeewwww!" is the only one you really need.

Well I will stand for this no more, as perhaps the only real fat person who has ever ran I’m taking a stand. Or at least a very passionate sit down (still very tired from my controversial run).

I have a dream today. A dream that one day, fat people and thin people will run together! I have a dream that fat children will not be mocked for their tight PE kits that make them look like the result of a malfunction at a sausage factory! I have a dream that being a fat runner will be a source of pride! I have a dream today, fat people! Oh I have a dream!

Okay, that might perhaps have been the biggest historical event I have yet compared my fat-fighting antics to. What to go for next? I’m thinking either the Titanic sinking or Apollo 13.

I gained a stone while going for a run today. I gained weight while doing something that is supposed to burn off calories. Those two sentences could actually represent the worst luck ever.

I actually dispute this fact, and blame the scales. Not in the same way that a Weight Watchers attendee would, breaking down into a howling bout of inconsolable tears, jowls wobbling as they plead with their group leader “it was only one Big Mac! Please don’t put me in the naughty cupboard! Okay it was six Big Macs sandwiched between two pizzas but still! I can change!” I promise, as desperate as this sounds I actually can’t have gained a stone! I have not strayed from my diet, not a calorie has crept in without me noticing. I’m like one of those bouncers who think their nightclub is much better than it is and refuses you entry for wearing something too blue, or for only having three different types of photo I.D. No calorie is allowed into my Viper Room unless he turns up in a suit, has shiny shoes and is friends with at least one Bee Gee.

Look love, if you don't recognise this man then you aren't coming in! Hold up, are they trainers? On your bike!

Now if I’d gained a stone over the course of a week, while I’d be reading the end of a Kurt Cobain biography for tips, I would at least kind of see it. I am a big lad, with many stones unceremoniously drooping from my anatomy. If another one managed to clamp on by mistake, I’d just put it down to the gravitational pull of my planet-sized midriff. But this was after one run! After this setback, I decided to take the only course of action that made sense.

Before I turned the gun on myself, I decided that having bought the scales today, they may just be faulty. Wow, that could have got messy for no real reason couldn’t it? The blood wouldn’t have been on my hands, it would have been on yours Pound Stretcher! In fact, I bet not all fatsos are as clever as me. I bet if there is a God he’s had to reinforce the clouds up there with all the chubsters who’ve offed themselves after being misleadingly informed that bravely shedding their inhibitions as well as their limitations by running the London Marathon has seen them gain three and a half stone.

I'mma win me some marathon!

My trip to buy the deceptive scales was not without incident either. While I was queuing up sadly not for a buffet or some sort of mid-week, roast dinner-eating competition but for a magazine and a pack of sugar free gum, I locked eyes with a security man. One of these fellas who decide it is a bright idea to move cases containing thousands of pounds cash in broad day light in the middle of a crowded street. So I locked eyes with this guy somewhat by accident. Possibly malnourished, I was just kind of staring into space. Though I’m not sure that limiting oneself to three meals a day and drinking water instead of beef dripping is grounds for malnutrition, but I digress. I nodded to him and he nodded back in the international gesture of “alright mate” So a minute or so passes, and this unfamiliar sound emanates from the vehicle; “Attention! A *name of company that I forget* driver is in need of assistance! Phone the police!” And nobody, not one person either in the crowded high street or in any shop along the whole street does a thing. Nobody moves. Being naturally of a nervous disposition I started to worry. Feeling an almost familial bond with my new best friend, I was deeply concerned for his safety. What if it’s an armed robbery? What if he’s hurt? What if he mistook my accidental and probably hungry look for me wanting to eat him? Could I eat a human? How do you cook one? What sauce goes with a human? All these questions crossed my mind as the cold-voiced alarm woman repeated “Phone The Police!”

I peered out of the shop window to see that my childhood friend was in the cabin of his vehicle, frantically trying to undo whatever he just did to cause this scene. He’d hit the alarm by accident. In all my minutes of friendship with him, I’d never known him to be so stupid.

What struck me was how wonderfully British the reaction to this whole thing was. In America, a message to phone the police would be met with screaming, praying, drawing of weapons and probably even the contacting of law enforcement, you know, like the message asked us to do. But in Britain, we don’t take a message like that at face value. “A driver is in need of assistance”, followed by the craning of hundreds of interested necks, all mentally evaluating just how much assistance he really needs. In this case, it was none. But what if something was going on? How much trouble would the driver needed to have been in for the Great British public to rush to his aid? What situation would have needed to be underway? A robbery? A murder? A Nigel De Jong slide tackle? A meteor shower? You can rely on us Brits to rush to your aid in a crisis. Once we’ve done a thorough risk assessment and marked the level of danger you are facing out of 10.

Attention: Xabi Alonso is in need of assistance. Phone the police!

That is it for today, hopefully more dicing with death tomorrow. Anything to take my mind off the dump truck of Chicken Nuggets and viaducts of full-fat cola I see in my dreams.

You can breathe out now, I’m alive. I didn’t get eaten by bears, I didn’t shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die and, thankfully, I didn’t sign for Liverpool as King Kenny’s last roll of the dice at saving the dying embers of Britain’s most annoyingly self-congratulatory football club. And guess what else? Go on, guess! No I’m not hosting the next Golden Globes after they ditch Ricky Gervais and I’m 94% sure Holly Willoughby’s baby isn’t mine. I lost weight! Okay, so that wasn’t exactly big news. It was actually rather minute news, seeing as this is a weight loss blog after all. In fact on news terms it was about as unexpected as “Charlie Sheen Likes Booze” or “Haiti Had A Windy Spell Last Year” But still, it’s a start.

Warning: Do not serve this man.

To be precise, I have lost four inches off my waist. At first this puzzled me, but I looked for them on my arse, my face, my neck and my man-boobs (or “moobs”) and these inches could not be located. They’re gone! Now granted, things could have been better. I mean I had a Subway today for the first time since I entered the programme (because making it sound like rehab clearly makes it more appealing), and despite losing six inches off my sandwich by downgrading from my usual foot-long, only four came off my waist. There is no God. Or at least if there is, he wants to keep me plump so the other religious deities don’t start hitting on me. I bet that is how all this started, the Mighty One saw Ganesh giving me the eye and in a fit of jealousy has been throwing kebabs into my mouth ever since.

How YOU doing? 😉

Apologies are in order. Being only the start of week two of this cyber-shindig, I’m still learning the rules myself, never mind having to pass them on to the loyal readership (that’s you). Basically the weekend is going to be my time off from updating you all on my every move. But I promise I won’t let you down. Fat will continue to be fought, calories will continue to be counted and sit-ups will continue to be…sat? Take this weekend for an example. This weekend I headed to a football (soccer to those of you who play football with your hands) match. I thought this would be a really good thing for me; I love watching the sport and would love to get into a shape that would allow me to be a better player and shake off the Emile Heskey comparisons that sadly/thankfully don’t extend to my playing ability. Perhaps I would be inspired by watching the professionals. What I hadn’t considered was my pre-match refreshment. I was absolutely parched as we came up to the ground, and while I was sensible enough not to plump for beer or a glass of food-processed pizza I was troubled to find that I’d passed all the shops. This left only one option. The unthinkable. To go to my favourite burger van and come away without ANYTHING to eat.

Well what did you think the unthinkable was? That I had to offer a human sacrifice for a can of diet Lilt? That I had to reveal myself as Luke Skywalker’s father just to receive the tropical refreshment? The trouble with this particular burger van is it is very visible. What I mean by that is that you, the patron, and those serving you are actually separated by a desert of sizzling hotplate. We aren’t just talking a bit of a slab here, we are talking vast grandiosity. The Sahara. I nearly had to email my order to the woman behind the counter, that is how far away she was. And this whole gargantuan surface is littered, is decorated, is absolutely engulfed in burgers. Burgers and onions and hot dogs. And the smell! If there was a Fat Boy heaven up there, somewhere between doggy heaven and thin people heaven, it would smell like that hot plate did. The overwhelming smell of meat. Meat and the salt of the thousand tears I shed upon it. This was it, my biggest test since I decided to take on the Bulge. This was D-Day and this burger van was the beaches of Normandy. I’ll leave it at one huge moment of historical significance for today, or else I’ll have nothing to compare a fat guy trying to get thin with tomorrow.

Luke...I am your father. Now fetch daddy a Lilt, there's a good lad.

I was so close to watching a display of athletic achievement sure to drive me forwards and cause me to redouble my efforts, only to be slapped in the face with the freshly-fried beef-patty of temptation. I felt like a drug addict being accidentally dropped off at a crack den instead of the Betty Ford Clinic.

Cab drivers beware: This is not a crack den

But did I relent? No! In my head I relented a thousand times over, ordering double, triple, quadruple burgers. Breaking the world record for the amount of onions held between two regulation slices of bread. Drowning into a melted-cheesy grave. But in reality, “that’ll be £1.50 mate” and a chubby little hand handed over the requested amount without so much as a “and six portions of chips please” or a “how bloody much you thieving urchin?” in reply. I had leapt over the hurdle. Or ran around it at least, I don’t really have the figure to be hurdling.

I’m reaching a critical stage now, and it is one I’m very happy to be at. I’m at the stage, after a week, of being too invested in this. If I stopped now, if I ordered a Dominos pizza, cracked open a beer and never saw my running shorts again I’d actually be really annoyed. I haven’t gone crazy here, even writing that sentence was enough to make me drool all over the keyboard. I’d be lying if I said that a life of sloth isn’t still an appealing prospect. But as Cheryl Cole proves every time she tries to hold an adult conversation, being appealing isn’t the same as being worthwhile. At the end of the day I’m doing this because I want to live a rewarding life, and what could be more rewarding than coming on here every night and moaning to you reprobates? See you tomorrow!